


The Chance Meeting of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Young Dr. Watson

by mresundance



Series: Sherlock University AU [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Holmes and Watson are modern day university students. This is how they met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chance Meeting of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Young Dr. Watson

January 14th

Hello once again loyal readers. My apologies for the lack of updates. Holmes has been unfortunately case-less for a few months. Yes, I can imagine the collective groans of ‘oh God, John, not again!’ from your lips as even as you type the very same words into the comments. So I will pre-emptively say ‘thank you’ for your sympathies. Between my work as a doctor and between Holmes’ fits of – well, you know – fits – there’s been little to report which is worth mention. Although, thanks to my dearest Holmes, we do have a new hole in the kitchen nook. He insists we can fix it by putting a skylight in, but I don’t think Mrs. Hudson much fancy that idea. She never much fancies Holmes’ ideas for ‘home improvement’, probably because he suggests them so frequently. 

Those have been following this blog and the extraordinary cases Holmes and I have investigated over the years have often inquired about how we met for the first time. After discussing it with Holmes he has given me leave to disclose the matter. Holmes assures me that no matter how unflattering the portrait of him, he won’t be disgruntled. I hope this is true, because I would rather not sleep on the sofa.

We were young men when we met, both university students. I had newly arrived in London from West Saltoun, near Edinburgh. West Saltoun was a rather small village indeed; by comparison London was hulking and vast. I was at times worried of being lost and then beaten and mugged. Such were the fancies of the naïve young man I was.

I had just finished my enrollment at the main offices of the University of Boscombe in London. My parents deposited me, orientation packets and suitcases and boxes and all, in front of the Baker Street dormitories. I insisted they go – they had a train to catch – and that I would be alright setting myself up. My mother hugged me until I was sure that a few ribs were cracked and my father wrung my hand and told me what a good lad I was and how well I would do. With that my parents hopped in a cab and sped away and I was alone. I was all of eighteen and it was the first time in my life, really, that I was on my own.

Somehow I managed to carry everything through that first door. Boxes akimbo, piled with books, suitcases lying thither and hither in the hall, I wandered around looking for my room, listed as 221B. A commotion from the kitchen on the first floor drew my attention. There was shouting, someone saying: ‘Get the bloody hell out!’ And then the kitchen door flew open, making the entire hallway rattle and a young man strode out. He had a rugby jersey on which read Stamford. I have to note that because I feel rather indebted to the fellow, in a strange way, for introducing us.

‘Hello,’ I said.

Stamford wheeled around.

‘Don’t go in there,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Unless you’re barking, don’t go in there.’ He looked towards the kitchen. There was a loud pop. ‘Holmes is in there.’ Stamford added.

‘Who?’

Stamford snorted. ‘You’ll see.’

With that, he left, muttering under his breath about being unable to make a simple bowl of noodles without that bugger interfering.

I was curious and so ignored Stamford’s warning and proceeded into the kitchen.

It stank, quiet frankly. Holmes is half reading this over my shoulder and he says ‘it wasn’t all that bad’, but oh, it _was_. It smelled rather like vomit. The small kitchen counter was dominated with a wild contraption made of tubes and vials and things bubbling and hissing and steaming. Smoke curled around the edges of the room.

And right in the middle, humming, mixing and stirring things in vials, was a shortish (‘Not that short,’ Holmes objects), young man with dark, wild hair. He wore a jumper with the word CAMBRIDGE printed on it and a pair of ragged jeans. He was talking to himself and didn’t notice me. I was vaguely certain, for a moment, I had stumbled on a meth addict and his lab. I had heard about these things happening in large cities, of course. I just didn’t expect to find one in my dormitory kitchen at university.

The young man spun around, a crazed look in his eye (‘Crazed? Dearest, don’t exaggerate now.’) and attempted to conceal his contraption. Poorly, I might add, because no matter how much he waved his hands, the contraption was too big for one shortish man to block from my view.

‘Why are you in my kitchen?’ he demanded.

‘Uh. Well. I. Uh.’

‘This my hour to be in the kitchen and I must be _undisturbed_. How many times do I have to tell people that when – ’

Not knowing what else to do, I offered my hand.

‘John Watson.’

The young man looked at my hand, then at my face, then at my hand. After a moment I removed my hand and the young man seemed to relax.

‘Holmes. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes,’ he mumbled.

‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Yes. Well.’

He turned back to his contraption.

‘Pre-med, are you?’ he said as he took a dropper of purple liquid.

‘Yes – I am.’ I said excitedly. And then: ‘How did you know?’

‘Your orientation packet over there has a purple card on top. Only the pre-med school and the LGBT soc have the purple forms. So, unless you joined the LGBT soc and are advertising you’re a giant poofter – advertising in your new dorm with all your new male mates, many of whom are at least mildly homophobic – you have to be pre-med. And oh,’ he sniffed. ‘From - West Saltoun? I believe?’

‘How – how?’

He rolled his eyes and squeezed a few drops of purple liquid into a vial of green liquid. It fizzed and he seemed pleased.

‘Aside from a touch of that peculiar and frankly – rank – Edinburgh-ish accent – it’s one of your books, I believe. There’s a rare book binder in West Saltoun who uses a particular glue to bind his books. He does some of the finest binding I’ve seen, particularly of old antique books. However, his glue has a very distinct and potent smell.’

‘You can – how can – you can smell that?’ I asked.

Holmes shrugged. ‘Always had a nose like a bloodhound. Which isn’t as clever as it might seem, since I knew every time my mother had been with a man who was not her husband and my father.’

There was silence between us, except for occasional bubbles and pops as Holmes mixed things.

‘Uhm, do you happen to know where room 221 B is, by any chance?’ I asked finally.

Holmes stopped and stiffened.

‘That’s my room. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it’s my room. Too?’

Holmes seemed to consider for a moment before saying: ‘Those wankers! I told them I would not be assigned a room-mate, that I simply refused – !’

He snatched the paper in my hand with my card key and my room assignment. He read it and fumed a little more, stamping and snorting and raising a general fuss.

‘Look, I’m sorry if that upsets you,’ I said after he seemed to calm down.

‘This is simply untenable,’ he said and went back to his contraption.

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t like it much either if he was going to be such a – well, arse, to put it indelicately – but we were stuck with one another. The next day had us both ringing up the housing department to be informed, very primly, that all the dormitories were full up and we would have to wait at least three months to see if anything became available.

At the time however, I simply stood and watched Holmes tinker.

‘What are you up to?’

Holmes turned around as if we had not had our entire previous conversation and he was looking at me for the first time.

‘Experiment,’ he said, eyes darting to and fro.

‘Look, if this is drugs –’

Holmes laughed. ‘Not at all. You needn’t worry. At least, not with this.’

He turned around and I watched as he drained a glass of neon purple liquid into an empty pint glass. Then he added a bright pink liquid which settled right on top of the purple, so there seemed to be two layers. Like oil and water.

‘Spectacular,’ he said, holding the glass aloft. ‘My god, I think I’ve finally done it.’

Just as he said that the pink and purple dissolved into one another, creating and kind of greasy mess.

‘Fuck,’ Holmes said.

‘What was it?’ I asked.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. ‘I was using my not inconsiderable knowledge of various cocktails and drinks to manufacture a unique drink of my own that might become not only popular amongst university students, but perhaps even profitable. Alas, while I have the liquor well chosen, I haven’t figured out the problem with the colouring just yet.’ He sighed as if he carried the weight entire of the world. He slumped in one of the hard plastic chairs, clutching the pint glass of his failed concoction.

‘I’m sure you’ll figure it out,’ I said. ‘I’m going to put my things up in the room.’

Holmes waved his hand and grunted something.

As it turns out, he never did figure it out and maybe that was for the best.

Well, I really must be going now. Holmes is doing something with the kettle that sounds like it could lead to an explosion. If readers show interest, I am happy to continue chronicling our earliest adventures. Next week I might feel motivated to tell you about some of Holmes’ first cases, particularly the one with the spiked drink at the Halloween Party where we showed up arm in arm, dressed as dandies.

(Holmes is chuckling now. And mentioning how we did not hear the end of that for many months. The dressing up as dandies, I mean.)

Until then! Please enjoy your day and I thank you humbly for reading.

Sincerely,

Dr. John Watson  
Unfortunate Partner, Chronicler and Captive of One Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Postscript:

I will assure readers that I did not find Watson’s portrait of me too unbecoming. He is currently safe from the sofa. However, I feel the necessity to correct his description of me as ‘shortish’. I currently stand at five feet and eight and a half inches. This is not at all short. Our dearest Watson is obviously confounded by a lack of sugar, as he missed his teatime to write this blog. I pray you will appreciate this sacrifice.

\- Holmes


End file.
